I, the Blogger

It makes me want to cry, reading my earlier posts. I used to write. I used to be able to mysteriously find the right words for what I had in mind, and string them together without having to look for conjunctions. I used to write without identifying myself as the researcher. I only hope that four years and forty projects have not completely and irretrievably taken away my ability to write something, anything apart from legal writing.

I can still write in my head, though. Only I'm too lazy or bored to take the trouble to transcribe it. I sometimes go into Nagarbhavi mode. But, I guess I've outgrown my catty-fiery-yellow-journalism phase. Nagarbhavi worked cus I was writing for an audience, I knew what they wanted to read and I, being the attention seeking blore [blog+whore] that I am, solicited the latest tune by remixing it. Sigh. My analogies have gotten so ugly. I need an audience, an easy subject to write about, colourful characters and malicious readers. I need to be a tabloid journalist.

I could even be one of those columnists that write about health and fitness. I'm becoming obsessive about the subject; but that's always a good thing. (See what I mean?) I bought my quota of fruits for the next few days today, and picked up an expensive custard apple (at 12 bucks an apple) for dessert. But, being the moron that I am, I googled it to find out its nutritional quality, and discovered that it's highly calorific (see, I even speak their lingo now). So now I'm just going to have it for breakfast tomorrow.

I used to laugh at people like me.


PS : I was forced to subject myself to a most torturous one hour today when I had nothing to read in class except this exceptionally horrible book called Bad Monkeys by some dufus called Matt Ruff and it was so bad that it's probably put me off the written word for a bit and I'm warning you, nobody ever EVER read it.